


Precious Things

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [26]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan and Ragnar are a sea apart and have many other things on their minds. Yet they still might be connected somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precious Things

**Author's Note:**

> Set between 2x05/6. Follows [Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1381111).

The pain of Athlestan’s wounds still bothered him, but at least now, several weeks on from his trauma, he could walk without a crutch, dress himself without wanting to scream, and grasp a spoon without it falling from his cramped, stiff fingers. On the king’s orders, he had been well fed and given salves to keep his scars from feeling raw, which helped in his recovery. Mentally, he was still fragile—occasionally crossing paths with the bishop and a few of the soldiers who had tortured him didn’t help—but physically, at least, he was starting to come back to normal.

The more he healed, the more the king wanted of his time, taking frequent meals with him, keeping him close by as he held court, and asking his opinion “as a pagan,” even though Athelstan had insisted to him that he had rededicated himself to God. The bishop and some of the ealdormen expressed concerns about this closeness, insisting that the apostate was not to be trusted—that he might have been left behind as a spy or saboteur. However, the rest of the Northmen had left the shores long ago, Ecbert pointed out in dismissing their concerns. They had seemingly abandoned their once captive, likely thinking him dead, and thus even if he were inclined to treachery, there was nowhere and no-one to go to with any information.

So it was as the late-summer days began to grow noticeably shorter that the king often gave Athelstan leave to quit the grounds entirely, and spend a morning wandering in the nearby woods, taking in the beauty of God’s creation while the weather was still warm and bright and the migratory birds had not yet begun their journeys south. Robins and sparrows and thrushes he spied, envying them their wings and simple lives. Ravens he spied as well, though their presence was a comfort that was at times hard to accept.

Whatever his non-human company in the woods, however, Athelstan welcomed the time alone. Though he had come to enjoy the king’s close attention, he occasionally felt a little penned in by it. It had not escaped him that he had, at least for the past several years, felt more free while technically being owned by Ragnar than he felt now being an actual free man among his cultural kin. He tried not to think often about that, however. Much as he was trying to reform himself as a dedicated Saxon and Christian, he still missed Ragnar dearly and wondered what had become of him and his family and friends as they tried to regain control of Kattegat. The pain of not knowing was even worse than the pain of the separation.

One morning as Athelstan returned to his room from a walk, he found a surprise waiting. On his bed, folded neatly, was the black formal habit of a Benedictine—a much more comfortable and less austere garment—and beside it lay a sheaf of vellum, several brushes and quills, and pots of ink and paint. Almost instantly, tears sprang to his eyes. The last time he had held a proper quill was the moment before he killed the poor, young monk at Winchester. Before that . . . he had lost count of the years, and now all the sense memory of his craft came flooding back.

When he lived with the Northmen, he often found himself trying to write and draw the way he used to. He would save a few long goosefeathers when plucking the birds for the cooks, and make his own crude inks and paints from crushed flowers or vegetable skins. Paper or vellum being alien to the people, he had no easy surfaces on which to mark, but occasionally he was able to find some thin planks of wood, or undyed fabric that he was able to doodle upon. It was not, however, remotely the same as what he had done at Lindisfarne. That he now once again posessed the means to properly do the work he had learned before his voice had even cracked flooded him with a sense of purpose he had not felt in a very, very long time. He reached for a quill and began to fondle it lovingly.

“Do you like them?”

Athelstan spun at the voice. The king stood in the doorway, a beatific smile on his face. “Sire!” He bowed quickly, then returned the smile. “I do. I do indeed. I never—“

Ecbert strolled in and lay a hand on his shoulder. “I remember you had told me you were cloistered at Lindisfarne. The illuminated works from that place are well known throughout the land. I thought it possible that you might have been one of their artists.”

“I was, yes.”

“Well, perhaps you can get back to some of your work, then. Our local monks do not produce such works, but I’m sure they would enjoy it if you made some pages for them to see.”

Athelstan nodded, and tried to keep himself from squirming in excitement. “I would be more than happy to do so.”

“Good! I am on my way to a meeting with a few noblemen, so I’m afraid I can’t stay, but I would appreciate it if you would take the evening meal with me.”

“Of course.” Athelstan gazed up at him. “It would be my pleasure, as always.”

“Excellent.” The king patted Athelstan’s arm, and then turned to go. “I will leave you to your work for now.”

“Thank you again, Sire. I cannot express how grateful I am for this.”

“As long as it makes you happy.” He flashed one last smile before he disappeared.

With how excited he was, it took Athelstan no time at all to collect the tools and spread them out on the work table. He sat down, and quickly wove his loose hair into a braid, to keep the strands out of his face, then stared a blank sheet, trying to think of what he should work on first. Something simple, he finally decided, to get his stiff hands used to holding the instruments again. He poured out a very small amount of paint into a tray, and dipped in the brush. The way he felt at the moment was as if he had endured a great storm, and was now finally seeing light again after a long time. The way, he guessed, Noah and his family must have felt upon seeing the dove return with the olive branch.

He set the brush to paper, and began to trace the outlines. Before he had even finished half of the design, however, he stopped and stared at what he had wrought, and the reality of it set his stomach to fluttering. On the page, the bird he had painted was not the one he had intended: This one was much larger, its beak far sharper, and its wings were black, not white.

 

***

 

Ragnar stared at the items laid out on the table before him: A silver cross on a rotting, leather thong. A crumbling pile of inked paper in between two leather-and-wood covers. A pair of simple, very worn sandals. A brown, roughspun robe. To his surprise, there were also some scraps of wood and cloth with colorful designs stained upon them. One last item was even more familiar: A blue, embroidered tunic that he himself once had worn.

The articles had been found, his son had told him, by a slave who was clearing out a storage space. They, along with several other things that Borg and his men had apparently overlooked or deemed useless, had been dumped there during the occupation of Kattegat.

“I knew these were Athelstan’s when the slave showed me the pile,” Bjorn said. “I thought you would want to be the one to decide what happened to them.“

“I do. Thank you.” His fingertips traced one of the designs Athelstan had drawn: A fawn nestled into its mother’s side. His chest ached with longing. It had been weeks since Horik’s man told him of the raid on the camp he had left behind in Wessex, but he still refused to believe that his lover was dead. Though his wife had not been able to see the man with her gift, his own dreams were still so vivid and real that he could not help but think the gods had sown them within his mind. Hope, however slim, still burned, and the discovery of this stash of Athelstan’s things seemed to be a good sign.

“I don’t understand, though, why this would be among his posessions.” Bjorn nodded at the tunic. “Isn’t this yours?”

Ragnar squirmed uncomfortably. He had given his son quite the rundown on what had become of his father’s friend since he had been away, but there were some things that he didn’t touch upon. “I gave it to him shortly after I became earl,” he equivocated. “If you remember: your mother insisted that we needed new clothes befitting our status. Most of my old clothes were put away, but some I gave to people who needed them.”

“But I thought you had clothes made for Athelstan when he became your steward. Why would you give him this? And I don’t recall ever seeing him wear it, now that I think of it.”

Ragnar winced. His son had always been clever, if headstrong. It was a gift Ragnar wished he didn’t have at the moment. “He didn’t wear it. It wasn’t meant for him to wear.”

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Well . . . “ Ragnar sighed as he realized there was no getting around this any more. The boy was now grown, and after several years of being apart from his father, it was time he got to know the man he had left behind—including the parts Ragnar had not discussed when he was younger, and more invested in the ideals of manhood. After a glance around to be certain they were alone in the space, he finally began. “Do you remember that there were some nights that I did not sleep in the bed with your mother?”

“Of course. You usually slept somewhere else when you’d been fighting.”

Ragnar shook his head. “Not those times. There were other times. When we weren’t fighting. Times when she . . . allowed me to be elsewhere.”

“I don’t . . . Wait.” Bjorn’s cheeks began to pink. “But I thought Gyda had made that up,” he murmured.

Ragnar cocked his head. “Gyda? What did she say?”

“She told me that one night she couldn’t sleep, so she got up to go see if there was something to eat. She said she overheard you and mother talking about Athelstan. She said mother asked you if . . . if you loved him.”

Ragnar felt a pang through his chest; he remembered the conversation. It happened not long after he and Athelstan had begun their initial experimentation. He told his wife what they had been doing, to confirm that she was accepting of it. She had been, but she did have that one question. At the time, he had hesitated to respond, being afraid of saying the words aloud. “Gyda wasn’t lying, Bjorn. And my answer to your mother’s question was, ‘yes.’ I did love him. I _do_ love him. I know that I am not supposed to feel this way about him—about any man—but I cannot help it. It is not something I am particuarly proud of, and this is not something about me I tell anyone who does not need to know, but it is the truth. I am sorry if this makes you think less of me, but I will not be dishonest with you—even if it doesn’t matter anymore, since Athelstan may be gone, now.”

Bjorn sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He closed his eyes and went quiet for some time. And then, to Ragnar’s great surprise, a single tear trickled down his son’s cheek.

“Bjorn? Please tell me you’re not upset with me.”

Bjorn’s eyes flipped open and he rubbed at his face. “No. No, I am not. I actually can’t say that I’m even surprised. I had always wondered why you had taken such an interest in him, and now that I know, it almost makes sense, even if it is strange. I will have to think on it some, I am sure, but no, I am not upset by this. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

Bjorn shrugged tiredly. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Ragnar frowned. “Does what stop hurting?”

“Losing someone. Even knowing that you may see them again after death.” Bjorn sniffled. “Gyda. Athelstan. My friend Olrik. I always thought I would have more time with them in this life, and now I know I will not, and I cannot stop the hurting of that. You once told me that you had lost many friends in your life. How is it that you are not always mired in the grief of it?”

“Oh.” Now it was Ragnar’s turn to well up. Across his mind flashed all the people he had loved and lost. Some were just faces; childhood chums or barely remembered companions in the shield wall. Others still occupied parts of himself that would never let them truly die. He took up the tunic in his hands. “Perhaps I can answer that by answering your original question: I gave this to Athelstan out of my love for him—so that he could have something of me when we were apart. Your mother and I did the same when I was away on raids, knowing that it was possible we might never see each other again. I also kept something of your sister’s—a hair comb—to remember her by. I still keep it in a chest next to my bed. These things may not give us the warmth that their owners did, but they are precious still, because they help keep the people we love alive inside us, even when the joy of being near them is in the past.”

A wistful look crossed Bjorn’s face, then he sprouted a sudden smile. “His arm ring!”

“Arm ring?”

Bjorn’s eyes glittered. “I still have it. Olrik’s.”

Ragnar had to smile. “You do. I remember him giving it to you before he died. Was it not intended for his family, though?”   

Bjorn shook his head. “He has no family. His mother died many years ago trying to birth his younger sister. His father died late last year of a bear attack. I am, I suppose, the closest person he had to family.”

“Then you surely should keep the arm ring, and hold it in memory of him. One day, when you meet again in Valhalla, he will want to know what has become of it, and you should be able to tell him.”

“I will.” Bjorn smiled again. “In fact, I should go now, and make sure that it is kept in a safe place. While I did not have the same kind of feelings for him that you have for Athelstan, he was nonetheless dear to my heart. I must honor that by keeping secure his gift to me.” He pushed his chair back. “Thank you, father. For this advice, and also for trusting me enough to tell me the truth about Athelstan. I am sure I will have other questions about that eventually, but for now, please know that I do not think less of you for it. Athelstan was a beautiful man. I might not understand exactly how you felt for him, but I understand why.”

Ragnar clapped his son’s arm affectionately. “Thank you, Bjorn, for being wise and thoughtful enough not to judge your father harshly for not acting as a man is supposed to act.”

Bjorn flashed a sly grin. “With the mother I have, how could I do otherwise?”

Ragnar spat a relieved laugh. “How indeed.”

Bjorn rose and turned to go, but before he’d taken more than a couple of steps, he glanced back. “Wait. I’m curious about one last thing.”

“Hm?”

“You say you gave the tunic to Athelstan, so he could remember you.”

Ragnar nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Did he give you anything in return? Anything to remember him?”

Ragnar reached down to the table, and picked up a slim piece of wood, onto which a design had been drawn with charcoal. “When Athelstan was a priest at his temple, he made images for his holy books. Not long after he came to live with us, I asked him to make one for me. This is what he did.”

He handed the item to his son.

As Bjorn took the wood and looked at the design, Ragnar traced the echo of it on the side of his head. “This raven will be with me always, and so, too, will the man who made him.”  


End file.
